Born In The USA
by IcedCoffeeInWinter
Summary: Vietnam is nothing like what you thought it would be, and neither is coming home. Losing him makes everything worse. Oneshot.


You remember telling yourself it wouldn't be that bad. You both did. You'd go, you'd look at some scenery, you'd learn to shoot some badass guns and brag about it when you got back. You told yourselves these things that you knew were lies, but somehow, you were able to pretend they were true. Maybe it was because you didn't have a choice. Or at least he didn't. You did, technically. But when you realized that he wasn't going to fight it, that sealed the deal for you. You weren't going to fight either, and from that moment on, you also didn't have a choice. You had a hard time believing your father cared about you. Your mother was a drunk. He was more than your best buddy. He and his brothers were also your brothers. The least you could do was go with him. He was more like family to you than your own family was. You knew that families, _normal_ families, anyway, looked out for each other.

You enlisted.

You remember hanging back at the bus station while he hugged his brothers. The kid was sobbing, and Darry was stoic as usual. But when he went to shake your hand, you could see the tears that he was working so hard to hold back. You couldn't shake the feeling that he knew something you didn't. He knew something would go wrong over there. He knew things wouldn't work out like you planned. But on the bus, everyone was talking and passing around girlie magazines. You chalked it up to nerves and put it out of your mind.

Everyone at boot camp loved him. He kept everyone entertained and in good spirits. Even the drill sergeants couldn't stay mad at him for long. They'd act tough, but you could tell that they secretly loved his antics. They were always fighting back laughter as they assigned him to clean the latrines or wash dishes as punishment. But at night, he'd always crash on the cot next to yours. During free time, you were always by his side, and you could tell that he was happy to have you there. As usual, he had his pick of friends. But, as usual, he still preferred you. You guess some guys would have gotten tired of being in his shadow, but you were nothing but honored to be his sidekick.

Vietnam was a rough adjustment for the both of you. Back home, you'd learned to sleep through your parents' fights, the drunks yelling in the street, and the cars speeding past at all hours of the night. But Vietnam was a different world. You couldn't get used to the noises of the jungle and the sounds of artillery in the distance. And on nights where there were no sounds, you were on edge because it was too quiet. During patrols, the fact that you could die became very, very real. You remembered nights where you never wanted to see your house again. But in Vietnam, surrounded by all kinds of danger, you wanted nothing more than to go home.

Soda had all the same fears that you did, but he also had fits of being agitated and bored. He hated that things were stricter there than they were in boot camp. He hated that he had to follow the rules exactly or risk being killed. And more than anything, he wanted to make it home alive. With every letter that he got, with every day that went by, the more he wanted it.

He made it halfway through his required year in Vietnam before he stepped on a land mine.

No one saw it. One second he was walking. He was breathing, smiling, talking, _existing_. And the next, he wasn't. You remember wondering how they'd gather his body to send it home, and then you started screaming. Someone from your company tackled you, stuffed a spare pair of socks in your mouth, and started loudly whispering to you, asking if you wanted to attract every Cong in the area. But at that point, you didn't care. He was all you had left. He was the whole reason you came to this hellhole. And he wasn't even there any more.

You couldn't even name your emotion. It was like nothing you'd felt before. It was worse than when Johnny and Dallas died, and also different somehow. You didn't sleep, and you alternated between isolating yourself and crying and snapping at anyone who came close. Then, one day, Scott Allison approached you with a vial and a syringe.

"The fuck?" you asked.

"Happiness," he replied.

You didn't push further. You knew what it was. You knew what it did. And at that point, you didn't care.

XXX

Tim Shepard picks you up at the airport. He was the only person you could think of. Your father is gone, you know that your mother is passed out drunk at home, and you can't ask either of the Curtis brothers. You don't think you can face them ever again. You can't stand that you made it back and Sodapop didn't. You can't shake the feeling that it should have been you.

"Glad you made it," Tim says. "Can I get you a drink some place? Buck's still got his bar."

There's something else you want.

"Where can a guy get some smack around here?"

Tim laughs. "You called the right guy."

XXX

Tim's in jail. Curly's in jail. Hell, _everyone_ in their outfit is in jail. The cops were so smug when they got them. One of the biggest drug rings in Tulsa history, and they busted it up. It's all over the papers.

You don't want a drink. You want your dope. But you haven't found another dealer, and you need something to make life softer around the edges. So you take Two-Bit Mathews up on his offer to take you out drinking. You go to a new bar in the factory district called Lefty's.

He's eyeing a group of girls at the far end of the bar, but you know that his focus is on the blonde in the group.

"See that girl? The blonde?" he asks. You've only been there an hour, and he's already trashed.

"What about her?" you ask. You're really not that interested.

"Her name's Mary Alice. God, but she hates me. She didn't appreciate me trying to look up her skirt one night."

"Imagine that," you say.

He doesn't reply for a minute. He's too busy staring at her.

"I'm gonna marry her," he finally says.

You snort and motion for the bartender to bring you another round.

"She ain't gonna like that too much," you reply after you've had a sip of your Scotch.

"She will. You just wait."

The two of you go silent. The jukebox is playing an Elvis record. It's something new and slow of his, and you don't like it. You prefer his older songs.

"You happy, Two-Bit?" you ask. You figure that, if anyone is going to be happy, it's him.

But he just looks into his beer glass and tiredly shakes his head.

"What's the point?" you ask. "Why stick around if we ain't happy?"

"There ain't one," he says. "But not sticking around is too scary to think about."

Maybe it is for him. But it isn't for you. You say your goodbyes, and you make sure not to make any definite promises about seeing him again.

At the bar, you got the name of someone who could get you some heroin, and you look him up. It's not as good as the stuff that Shepard had, but that doesn't matter. You buy enough to last several days.

XXX

You don't go home. Home is the last place you want to be. Instead, you drive your car up to Lover's Lane. From there, you have a nice view of the city.

You reflect on your life as you prepare your drug. Good times, bad times, you remember it all. What they say about life flashing in front of your eyes is true. As you push down on the plunger, your thoughts are on Soda.

As you drift off to sleep, you're aware that the radio is playing _I Feel Like I'm Fixin' To Die_. And although you're not in your right mind, the irony still isn't lost on you. You laugh.

* * *

S.E. Hinton owns _The Outsiders_. Bruce Springsteen owns _Born in the U.S.A._, which is the song that gave me the inspiration for this story. Country Joe and the Fish own _I Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die_, the song that's mentioned at the end.

I've been uninspired lately, so this is just a oneshot that I wrote to get me off my writer's block. Reviews are always appreciated.


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